Better than Anyone
by Ellisaed
Summary: Martin released a sigh. He lifted his head, sore eyes looking across the dark living room to the playpen there. He watched the little form that sat inside . . . Jake sat quietly, sucking his pacifier and staring at his father. The dark eyes, just like Sarah's, staring into his soul. Stories of Jake and Martins journeys together. Please R&R!
1. Chapter 1

**Hello readers! You may know me as a Star Wars fanfic writer, BUT I had had had to write this fic! Touch really is the best show like ever ever! Martin and Jake's strained yet completely loving relationship is so appealing and real to me - when something tugs at my heart strings I can't not write about it! So here is chapter one, a prologue of sorts. Please read and review! Thanks! :D ~Ellisaed **

* * *

Martin Bohm sat with his head in his hands. It was dark in his living room, and it didn't bother him. He knew the remnants of his wife, Sarah, were lying about: her sweater thrown across the back of the couch, her files from work spread on the coffee table, her photographs sideways on the mantle place. It was too much too soon.

Fingers dug through blonde hair in an angry hold. But he wasn't angry. Martin loosened his tie and unbuttoned his dress shirt, leaning back against the couch tiredly. The funeral had been long and formal, and was finally over. He hadn't cried. The families, so many families of the victims had said their goodbyes and shared memories. They had offered him consolation. Martin had politely accepted it. He had watched the flags be folded, and hadn't shed a tear.

9/11 was its new name. Martin bit back a curse. He had so many regrets, so many sorries to say and goodbyes to give. He had been away at work when it happened, and the news had reached him late. By the time he returned, he knew Sarah was gone. His wife was dead. He was too late.

Martin released a sigh. He lifted his head, sore eyes looking across the dark living room to the playpen there. He watched the little form that sat inside, seeing the outline of curly dark hair and profile of tiny features. Jake sat quietly, sucking his pacifier and staring at his father. The dark eyes, just like Sarah's, staring into his soul.

Martin rose and crawled over, sitting beside the playpen. Jake didn't move, one of his little hands clutching the mesh of the pen. Martin faced his son, turning his head a little to meet Jake's eyes again.

"Hey Jake." He whispered, smiling a little, "You were quite the little bugger tonight . . . giving Auntie Abigail grief like that."

Martin chuckled, remembering his sister-in-laws face. Unlike him, his son had indeed cried at the funeral. The entire time he had wailed and screamed, despite Abigail's attempts to soothe and rock him. She had insisted on taking him home with her, but Martin knew his son. He knew Jake better than anyone else.

Martin had learned Jake liked to be alone in the dark, in the silence; upon retuning home that was just what Martin arranged, and his son had stopped crying instantly. That was his Jake.

"I understand what mommy meant now. Telling me you were a wonderful handful." Martin ran a hand through his hair, taking a breath, "Mommy loved you, more than anything. She would have given anything for you. I'm sorry I wasn't here. I'm sorry - "

Martin stopped at the falter in his voice. His lip trembled at the sight of his still serene little boy. He looked so much like her.

"Mommy's gone now, Jake . . . she won't be coming back. So now, I'm going to take care of you. I'm going to stay with you. And I'm going to keep you safe. Alright?"

Jake sighed, blinking back at him.

The young father held back tears, wiping his face. No, the little child could not understand him, let alone reply. But that small sigh echoed reassurance to him. It was enough.

"Alright. Good." Martin smiled, "Lets go to bed then . . ."

Martin rose to his knees, reaching into the pen to scoop up his son. Jake struggled against his touch, and in his fathers grip he screeched a wail. Martin hushed the baby, rubbing his back, but it only seemed to make it worse.

"Jake, sweetheart, calm down."

Jake screamed louder, and louder yet, and Martin set the baby back down in his crib, seeing the child grab his pen and quiet in a heartbeat. Reluctantly, he sat down aside it again. Martin stroked his sons hand, but the baby pulled away and whimpered. Martin met Jake's eyes.

"Shh, it's alright sweetheart. Daddy will sleep here with you."

In a few moments, Martin arranged himself semi-comfortably beside his son on the floor, leaning back against a pillow and beneath a blanket. He placed one of Sarah's pillows in Jake's pen with him and whispered goodnight. Martin watched Jake intently, seeing him still sit awake. Restless.

"I know, I know . . . Mommy isn't here. But I'm here. Okay? I'll always be here."

Jake rubbed his eyes. His father chuckled again, knowing what to do.

" . . . _Hey little sleepy boy . . . do you know what time it is_?" Martin whispered the song, "_Well the hour of your bedtime's long been past_ . . ."

Jake blinked at him, quiet. He was listening. Martin knew he sounded nothing like the voice of his wife, of Sarah's beautiful singing, but he knew Jake better than anyone. He knew eventually it would get him to sleep. So Martin sang the song, memories rising in his mind bittersweet and sorrowful, and he sang it again and again until his son closed his eyes.

"_Though I know you're fighting it, I can tell when you rub your eyes . . . you're fading fast . . . fading fast_ . . ."


	2. Chapter 2 - 1379

**Ello lovelies! Now I promised you more, and you don't know what you've gotten yourself into now...*maniacal laughter* Just kidding, what I mean is this: I recently read something by a Touch fan that said "I'd love to write a Touch story, but its so confusing I'd screw it up." Well I am here to be an example to all Touch fans - I have written a Touch story! I contemplated the plot for days (which is something I do not do as a writer oddly enough) and have been brewing and brewing over a very Touch-Like story I have now transcribed for you. Yes, you! I hope I can be an inspiration for all you Touch writers! You can do it! **

**Now forgive me if I update slow, I've got stuff going on lately but I love this story with an untameable passion! Please read, review and share! I also have a Touch Instagram fan page you can check out: _touch_ ! Thanks again! :D ~ Ellisaed **

* * *

Martin Bohm found himself watching his son. Jake scribbled intently into his worn red notebook, rocking slightly back and forth as he went. His red hoodie was unzipped carelessly, and the dark eyes flittered across his paper. He hadn't touched his breakfast.

Martin leaned closer to him, "Jake, buddy, take a break okay? You need to eat your food. It's bread, not toast, with butter on one half just like you like it."

Jake didn't falter. Martin pushed the plate closer to the boy, "Come on, you need to eat. We've got a big day ahead of us. Take a bite."

Jake looked up curiously, studying the food just to make sure, and finally picked up a piece and started eating.

"Good boy." Martin encouraged, and Clea smiled at them from across the booths table. The three had escaped the board and care unit for a breakfast at a small cafe in a quieter part of the city. It was sunny outside, busy as heck, but a beautiful day.

Clea Hopkins met Martin with her steady dark eyes, impressed by what she had just witnessed. "That's the kind of thing you two need to show at the evaluation today - a bond, communication. Your case needs it."

"We've had three evals already this week Clea. What more does anyone need to know?" Martin wasn't upset at her, but at the situation. No longer could he simply go out for breakfast with his son enjoyably, not since board and care and certainly not since the numbers.

Clea gave him a look he recognized, folding arms over her blouse as her lips thinned into a line. They had only known each other for a week or two, but in that time Martin knew her better than he did a lot of people. Their relationship was unique, but she had become a mother figure to Jake - his son trusted her, which was a step in itself.

Martin trusted her too. That didn't mean he always agreed with her.

Clea sighed, "The last three evals did nothing to change the boards opinion of Jake. You didn't show up for the last one - "

"My computer was stolen, and I was held at gunpoint on a bus." Martin said in a matter-of-fact tone. He gave her a look right back, taking a sip of coffee then as the waitress dropped it off, "You know that."

Clea rolled her eyes, accepting a cup of tea and a phone book from the waitress, "Thank you."

Clea looked to Martin again, "I have six different care facilities to call, cross-referencing some information about a patient."

"The one in room six?"

Jake, at the words, looked up at Clea for a moment before slowly returning to his notebook again. She stopped flipping through the phone book for a moment, her glaze lingering on him curiously. Was Jake aware of the situation? For him to be was something clearly out of the ordinary, that they both knew.

"That's the one." Clea finished, "And I have to contact tonights evaluators and tell them about you and Jake."

"Miss Hopkins, I'm sure they don't need to know every misstep we've taken."

"Understandable. But your improvements, so far, have been bleak. Jake has refused to communicate, ran off countless times, had his share of breakdowns - "

"And that's my fault?" Martin barked back frustratedly.

Clea swallowed, still staring at him. "No, it's not - "

Suddenly, Jake reached across the table and snatched the phone book from Clea urgently. He closed it, flipping through from the beginning, scanning over the numbers and addresses intently. He smiled slightly as he went.

Clea raised her eyebrows, waiting for the explanation she knew Martin would give.

The man ran a hand over his hair, "Listen, I _am_ communicating with my son. Jake is speaking to me - through numbers. I've been following these numbers and amazing things have been happening, you know that."

"The evaluators don't. And they don't seem to care."

"Well I do. The reason why those evals went wrong was because I _wasn't_ following the numbers. Jake was in pain. I'm not going to let that happen again."

As if on a silent cue, Jake released a shriek from beside him. Other customers in the restaurant looked their way, but Martin ignored them and turned to Jake urgently, seeing him slip beneath their table, rocking rapidly back and forth.

"Jake, what's wrong?" Martin ducked his head under the table, surveying the boy, "Jake! What happened?"

Jake released rhythmic whimpers, eyes squeezed shut, clearly in distress.

"Is he okay?"

Martin looked up to see their red headed waitress again studying them with concern as she dropped off the bill. Clea nodded and replied for Martin, seeing him duck under the table again, "He's fine, thank you."

"Jake! What's wrong?" Martin suddenly noticed how he clutched his hand, and he whispered soothingly. "Buddy, did you hurt your finger? Let me see."

Jake quieted down instantly. Martin sighed, watching as his son crawled over and sat again beside him. He shoved his small index finger in his direction, one which bled across his fingertip.

"Paper cut." Martin said gently, knowing how Jake was with injuries. Unable - or unwilling - to talk, his son could go days with a headache without telling him.

Clea rummaged in her purse, "I've got a bandage, if he'd like - "

"No, no, we'll have to stop by the pharmacy. He only likes blue bandages."

The woman looked up at him with skepticism, "Is this a habit he picked up himself?"

Martin nodded, still soothing his distressed son gently, "Look Jake, we'll go and get your bandages. It's just a little cut, from the phone book."

Martin reached and gave the directory back to Clea, retrieving Jake's notebook resting beneath it. Scanning it over, his eyes caught glimpse of a certain number listed on the page in even columns. In the centre of the series, the numbers were drawn in a pattern, almost like a honeycomb, a shape with thirteen sides.

"1379." Martin squinted to identify the tiny numbers, and when he spoke it Jake quieted his whimpers. He showed Clea the notebook, "This number . . . what page did Jake have the phone book opened to?"

Clea blinked, looking down to the phone book again, her eyes flittering across the page, "13."

Martin switched books with her, scanning the page quickly, counting rows rapidly.

"It's a triskaidecagon. I've seen this symbol before," Clea nodded to herself, thinking back as she studied the shape, "I know I have."

"Here." Martin cried, "Page 13, seventy-ninth listing. An address, an apartment a few blocks away . . . Jake, is this where we need to go? Is this what you mean?"

Jake blinked, still and silent. He ducked beneath the table again, grabbing his notebook before strolling over to the other side of the small cafe and sitting at a new table, scribbling again.

"Jake!" Martin sighed, ripping out the page and looking at his watch as he rose, "What time is the eval?"

"5:00." Clea said firmly, "I'll see what I can find on this symbol. You go get your bandages and find the address."

"Alright," Martin patted his pockets for his wallet, but Clea shook her head, taking the bill herself.

"I'll cover it this time. Go on ahead. I'll see you two tonight. Call me if you need anything."

Martin smiled gratefully; it was things like this that made him appreciate Clea so much. "Thank you."

Unsurprisingly, Jake was already halfway across the street when Martin turned around. With a groan, he took off after him, crying his name like always. Clea shook her head, unable to wipe the smile off her lips. What had she gotten herself into those few weeks ago, taking this case she had thought was simple? On the contrary, the Bohm gentleman had brought more excitement to her job each passing day.

Clea took a look at the bill on the table before her and sighed. _$13.79_ . . . _here we go again._


	3. Shapes and Situations

**Why hello there! I'm sorry for the long wait, been contemplating this chapter lots and lots! I wanted to try and make things work out as true to Touch as possible, and hopefully you think so. I'll be sure to try and give you more very soon! Hope you enjoy! Please read and review! Thanks! ~ Ellisaed**

* * *

"I understand mother . . ." The young man spoke gently into his cell phone, trying his best to soothe the distressed woman on the other side of the phone. Truly, she was also on the other side of the world. "And you say father is worried?"

". . . He cannot finish in time. He says . . . if his employer returns now . . . Raheem, I'm scared."

"Mother, do not worry." Raheem sighed, fighting his way through the crowded city streets still, glancing at his watch. "I'll see if I can send something to help."

He doubted it. There was already too much on his mind; he was late for work, near close to being fired, and his parents crisis was only growing worse. He had moved to America as a teenager in attempt to escape hardship, but it seemed like it had only increased since then.

Initially, he had left India to provide a better life for his parents that had already given everything for him. His father was a carpenter, his mother a home maker in a tiny town in India; he had been a smart boy with potential, and Raheem had used it to his advantage, attending school and landing a job at an up and coming company in upstate New York.

Despite what income he sent to his parents, they still struggled to make do.

His fathers patron was a well poor paying and cruel man, and just recently he had placed an order far too great for his aging father to fill. If he did not please the patrons . . . Raheem did not want to imagine what would become of them.

"By tomorrow mother, I'll have something sent for you - "

"Raheem, it will be too late."

Raheem pursed his lips, breath shaky at the pure fear in his mothers voice. He stopped walking for a moment, removing his hat and running fingers through dark hair. "Mother. What am I to do? What else can I do? I can't let this happen!"

"Darling, you must pray. That is all we can do. Pray the patron will not return before tomorrow." His mothers voice had steadied faithfully, "That is all we can do."

"Yes Mother."

Raheem sighed deeply, closing his phone and squinting into the warm sunlight. It was hot, nearly eighty degrees, though he still had four blocks more to walk -

"Hey!" Something collided into his side, releasing a scream or two of alarm. Raheem dropped his phone, stumbling to steady himself, "Watch yourself -"

Raheem looked to a small boy with dark curly hair, staring at his feet intently before him. He rocked gently forward and back, and Raheem was intrigued by the curious little child. The boy knelt and retrieved his phone, holding it out to him, still not looking at him, and Raheem took it with a smile. He had never seen a boy behave in such a way.

"Jake!" A middle aged man, presumably the father, called, running to their side. Raheem bent to retrieve his hat from the sidewalk, and the man knelt down to assist him.

"I'm so sorry," The man apologized, handing him the cap, "He's my son, he gets away from me sometimes."

"No trouble," Raheem smiled, twisting his hat back on his head, "Have a good day."

The man nodded, looking to see his son walking away before calling, "You too!"

Raheem didn't look back, thinking once more about the funny child before heading on his way.

* * *

Martin flicked his eyes quickly down the aisle, past the soap and beauty products. Ten minutes he had wasted already, looking for these silly things. Jake had lead him all the way to the pharmacy, thought Martin had hoped he had forgotten about the paper cut.

They needed to get going. Martin took the phone book page he had ripped out of his pocket; they needed to find the address and whoever lived there before their scheduled eval, for Martin knew his son would soon grow agitated. The pain would begin if things weren't soon set right, pain a lot worse than a paper cut.

"Blue bandages . . . " Martin pursed his lips, glancing beside him to see Jake studying a display of cosmetics, clutching his wounded finger. The necessity of a bandage was long since past, but Jake had to have one anyway. _Strong willed, just like his mother. _

Martin whispered to Jake firmly, "Stay close buddy. You can't keep wandering off, not today. I'll find your bandages, and then we'll go to the park okay?"

Jake didn't move, but Martin knew he heard him. He nodded, wandering up the aisle to continue his search, ". . . if I were blue bandages, where would I be -"

"Do you need some help?"

Martin turned to see a bubbly looking teenager in a lab coat grinning before him, blue eyes wide as saucers. Her name tag read "_Harper_", and her accent was heavily southern. He figured it must have been her first day on the job.

Martin smiled back at her involuntarily. "Yes, I do. I'm looking for bandages, but my son only likes blue ones."

"Oh, how cute!" The girl giggled, motioning him to follow her down the aisle, "Well we have all sorts of different designs - trains, planes, sport patterns, dinosaurs, and of course we have a floral print but he certainly wouldn't like that would he?"

"No. Just blue is fine."

"Of course sir, how about these?" The young pharmacist turned to him him a box of rainbow coloured bandages. She looked at him expectantly.

Martin accepted them, nodding, "Perfect, thank you."

"Now if you follow me to the check-out, I can help you with - "

The girl screamed, and Martin ran to her side to see her distress. What he found didn't surprise him.

Jake sat in a clearing of the aisles, about a dozen empty lipstick containers emptied around him, the contents spread on the floor. He popped off the lid of another, continuing the pattern he had begun in the same design Martin had seen in his notebook - the same thirteen sided shape with a myriad of lines connecting points to points. Only then it was quadruple the size and bright red on the shiny pharmacy floors.

"I'm so sorry." Martin mumbled to the still shocked girl, kneeling beside his son, "Jake, these aren't ours to use. We have to pay for these now. You can't wander away and cause trouble!"

Jake blinked rapidly, finishing the the bottom of the pattern with three more quick lines, ignoring his father.

"That's enough Jake."

Martin held out his hand, waiting. Jake looked slowly over to him, moving to place the lipstick in his fathers hand; instead, he scribbled four numbers on it messily.

_1379_. Jake replaced the lid, standing and taking the bandages from Martin's other hand and walking toward the check-out. The young pharmacist moved to meet Martins eyes.

"Is your son an artist?"

Martin looked to the numbers on his palm, shaking his head, "I wish."

* * *

"How much do I owe you?" Martin pulled out his wallet, "Including the lipstick - "

"Oh that's quite alright sir." Harper soothed him, still as bubbly as before though clearly still in awe of Jake by the way she studied him. Jake was scribbling in his notebook again, and the rest of the people in the checkout cue also glanced curiously at him. At this point, Martin was used to the staring.

"No, I'll pay it. How much?"

The girl punched a few numbers into the register, "Including thirteen containers of lipstick, the cost comes to . . . "

A crash interrupted the girl, and all eyes looked to the front of the store, screams erupting from the customers. A man with a ski mask stood, wielding a gun and heading their way. Martin cursed.

"Shut up! Nobody move!" The masked man shouted, going toward the aisles determinedly. Martin motioned the other customers to kneel down, Harper meeting his eyes with bright fear.

"It's alright." He barely whispered, noticing his son still standing amidst the uproar. "Jake, get down! Jake!"

Martin tugged his sons sweater, making him shriek once. The masked man emerged from the aisles at the sound, the once empty bag he clutched filled with drugs then. Martin gave his son one final firm tug as the man stalked towards their check-out, and Jake finally complied and knelt down.

The masked man held up the gun and demanded, "The money, give me the money!"

Harper was frozen, trembling and staring at the man from behind the counter. The gun in his hand moved closer to her face, "Give me the money!"

Martin knew the girl was too shocked to move. He stood, and the gun moved toward him in a heartbeat. Martin raised his hands, "Just don't hurt her - "

"Who are you, Mister Rogers? Get down or I'll shoot both of you! Now!"

"Harper. Give him the money." Martin said to the girl quickly, but she stared, shell-shocked. The man loaded his gun.

"Harper!"

"Give me it _now_!"

Impatient and filled adrenaline, Martin had no choice. With a quick glance at Jake, he took a risky lunge toward the masked thief, grabbing the gun wielding hand and wrenching the arm back. The man elbowed him roughly in the gut, and though doubled over Martin managed to free the gun and whip it promptly across the store.

His vision darkened suddenly as he took a blow to the face, knocking him to the floor; Martin writhed, fighting against the pain to stand shakily again, but another punch met his nose, and a boot his knees and he was down just as before. He heard footsteps and screams as people began fleeing the store in a panic, the robber flee with them.

"Jake . . ." Martin mumbled his sons name, rolling over to see Jake having not been moved, like a sturdy tree, staring at the commotion calmly. The dark eyes steady, Sara's eyes.

_Don't worry about him Martin_. The memory of her voice flashed in his mind. Sara had said back when Jake was just a baby, when Martin had noticed how his son often stared. She had smiled a little, ruefully, _He's as steady as a rainstorm, sturdy as a tree. Just like you. _

Martin saw it then, crystal clear. He knew no one who could be so nonchalant amidst such terror. Unlike him. That's where Sara got it wrong. Jake was far braver than his father thought he would ever be.

Sirens of police cars approaching was their saving grace, and Martin regained his breathing as he struggled to his knees at least, wiping blood from his nose. Jake glanced at him for a moment, opening the box of bandages at the checkout. He approached his father with a bandage, and Martin smiled at the kindness his son was showing -

Jake carefully plastered a blue one around his cut finger, not looking at his father.

Martin rolled his eyes.


End file.
